


Homestuck Fic Fragments

by CloudDreamer



Series: Fic Fragments [1]
Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Heist, Jane Crocker Is Homestuck Jeff Bezos, Lawyers, Leftist Undertones, Lesbians Doing Crime, M/M, Organized Crime, Vampires, excessive descriptions of clothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 06:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 21,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer
Summary: Some Homestuck AU ideas I never finished.





	1. The Lesbians Plan A Heist

You are June Egbert, and you’re standing at one end of the most fancy tables you’ve ever seen while wearing the fanciest article of clothing you’ve ever touched.

A Kanaya Maryam original. She insisted on going all out for your first dress, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s quite your style. The skirt is floofy and goes out from the waist. 

You’ve got a feather scarf around your neck that’s just so fluffy. It’s hard to keep from petting it, but Rose instructed you on proper etiquette. How she knows such things considering that she’s been kept so busy with the very under ground and very militant side of what she describes as engaging with the true democratic process as our founding fathers did before us and most major the last six years is beyond you.

Dirk sits in a chair on your right. He studies you with that trade mark Strider intensity without Dave’s occasional willingness to be tactful. His shades have red streaks in them that look sort of like circuits. 

Jake takes the seat next to him, and he fidgets with his wedding ring. His tie is so gold that it’s almost a pale orange, though it’s nothing in comparison to the down right tangerine dress shirt Dirk has on. His cuff links are the crocker corp logo, which, if you think too deeply about it, is a little creepy.

Calliope sits down across from Jake and Roxy across from Dirk. Calliope’s dress is long, down to her ankles, and the soft shiny fabric is a light green with red sparkles at the top of the wide v neck. She is rather chubby, even more so than Jane and shorter than Aradia. The black gem stone that pins up her short and very curly white hair sparkles like star light. You notice a spiral tattoo under her recently pierced left ear, lime ink striking in contrast to her super pale albino skin. 

Roxy’s dark brown skin makes the bubblegum pink in her tight dress really pop. There’s something unconventionally boyish about the cut of the fabric on hers, and they both look more masculine than usual, which you’re sure Kanaya would be able to explain to you in detail. Perhaps it’s that they’re both wearing bow ties? Or the sneakers they’ve got on? 

Yeah, your gay dar is still pretty much shit. And by shit, you guess you mean nonexistent. 

The waiter is one Gamzee Makara. His shirt is unbuttoned further than you expect from a typical service Rose and Vriska are both one hundred percent certain Jane is cheating on her husband with him.

They are also one hundred percent certain that Jake is aware of this particular fact. 

What they are not certain about is whether or not she knows he knows. 

And, as if thinking of her is enough to summon her presence, Jane Crocker opens the door to the dining hall, finishing up a heated argument and slamming the phone down. 

“I’m sorry, did I keep you waiting?” she asks. 

“Not long, dear,” Jake replies, distant.

The CEO of the richest mega corporation in the whole entire world slides into the seat at the other end of the table. Her outfit is the perfect mix of functional and stylish with barely any trace of personality. The bright red lipstick really stands out in contrast with the eyes that are paler blue than hours. Icy and highlighted with perfectly applied mascara. 

For a moment, you worry you’re totally caught, but she just looks you over, comes to some sort of conclusion, and nods. Dirk takes a bit longer, but follows suit. Jake’s too antsy to check you out, and the only checking you out that Roxy’s doing is... apparently sexual in nature? You thought she was going out with Calliope, but considering your own romantic situation, you should probably not be too quick to judge.

You’re looking her over too, though not because her gender presentation is particularly different than it was the last time you saw her.

You find what you’re looking for on her neck, shimmering with an almost magical energy and connected with golden clasps.

You don’t know much about jewelry, but you recognize the eight cerulean gem stones in the necklace from the picture Terezi kept lecturing you on. The most famous of the pieces from the Peixes Collection and, if she wasn’t just fucking with you, the one with the most hotly debated history. They’re valuable, whether or not they’re actually deeply intwined in her and Vriska’s family legacy.

You’re here to steal it.

—

You are Terezi Pyrope and it is three weeks before the heist, and you look out on a group of your closest friends, part time lovers, and full time pains in the ass. Behind you is a black board. In your hand is a piece of fresh red chalk, which you’ve only eaten a bit of. You’re an adult now, and you are very mature.

(By a bit, you mean precisely half.)

“You have all been gathered here for a very important purpose: To celebrate our dear frenemy slash friend slash nemesis slash inconvenience’s induction into the elite ranks of the Earth human lesbians.” 

You are one hundred percent human. This started as a way to annoy some silly boys you used to hang around with before you realized the best way to drive them absolutely crazy was to leave them with each other. 

June Egbert waves and smiles. She’s still got that gap between those two front teeth, which you know from exploring it with your tongue. It’s so cute, and she doesn’t even bite. She’s so much better this way without the perpetual depressed stink of unwashed human and dusty dissatisfaction. 

“And we,” you say, gesturing at the more experienced members of the crew, “have decided to do so by preforming the age of tradition of— how did you put it, Lalonde?” 

“Being gay, doing crime,” Rose says. She’s sits on a lush couch that looks like it’s right out of some old book about a “great” whiny boy, head in Kanaya’s lap. She hasn’t dyed her hair in a while, so her dreadlocks look pastel. The jagged scar running across her face doesn’t fit the aesthetic, and neither does the fact that ya’ll are in a basement that’s not properly ventilated. 

Kanaya wears a breezy summer day dress with strawberries on a white background and a jade hijaab. Her high heels are left haphazardly by the door, next to Rose’s combat boots. Which also have high heels. You are sure they both know how to use their footwear as deadly weapons. Hiding a blade inside of a cane must seem so plain to them. You know this because they have told you on separate occasions. 

Meanwhile, Vriska..

She’s chilling backwards in a plastic chair that’s too small for her, wearing a tank top to show off her admittedly sick abs and the tattoo on her shoulder that she got in prison. You remind everyone she says that to that she was only in jail for eight days, thanks to your excellent skills. Also, that she never would’ve been caught in the first place if she’d been following directions even if she thought those directions were “laaaaaaaame.” She’s still wearing her cherry red converse, ignoring the dirt and mud.

June’s aesthetic is still a work in progress, as she’s only recently abandoned her pathetic and desperate attempts to dad up, so to speak, and right now, she’s just wearing one of Vriska’s old denim jackets that’s way too big for her over a t-shirt for one of those gurl power reboots she loves now of those old goofy movies she loved when she was younger. The hair clip she’s using in that straight black hair of hers is pretty cute, even if it looks dorky, and she’s not at all comfortable in what seems to be Roxy’s old pink skirt. She’s also wearing the same plain wire glasses frame as well as the same beat up blue sneakers she’s had for years now. 

And you? 

Well, you’re Terezi Pyrope, and that’s really at that needs to be said on the matter. 

You smack your cane with the hidden blade on the ground when you think people aren’t paying enough attention to your absolutely brilliant plan.

Your magnificent, magical plan.

Your fantasmic, transformative plan. 

The plan that will let June develop her own sense of style.

The plan that will synthesize the thesis that is the politically minded and rather organized yet illegal methodology of Team Rosemary and the antithesis, the absolute train wreck that is the Scourge Gfs hedonistic crime spree, into one immensely powerful polyamory of M4YH3M and JUST1C3.

The plan, dun DUN DUN.

To rob JANE CROCKER.


	2. Thoughts on Polypa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was gonna be another of the normal theater of tragecomedy fics but i didn't finish it.

You’re a fighter. You’ve always been one, even though you’ve tried to keep it contained. 

When a purple blood knocks you out of the way with his broad shoulders, you feel your middling olive boil. You’re faster than he is, you know that, and you know if you just—

But you don’t, because trolls like him don’t just die. Anything that isn’t fatal instantly would give him room to kill you too, or, worse, you’d be tracked down by any friends of his. You’ve seen the sort of corpse that clowns leave behind, and you have no interest in becoming one of them.

You take the hit and fall to the ground, biting your lip hard enough to bleed, as not to make a sound. It takes a moment for you to calm enough to push yourself to your knees and then to your feet. 

You’re breathing as slow, but the anger doesn’t subside. There is nothing you can do, so you just hurry back to your hive.

You spar with your lusus with a fury. She’s a quick slender meowbeast with sharp claws that hasn’t sheathed for you in a long time. There are plenty of movies lying around you need to watch for your review, but you’re not in the mood.

There’s no happily ever after for you.


	3. Thoughts on Ardata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the same as the last one but with ardata. some mentions of torture and alcohol.

There’s an art to pain. 

You’re no troll Michelangelo, but you’ve been around the block a few times. You’re good enough, except when you aren’t.

When you aren’t good enough, you always hurt. Sometimes that takes the form of an escapee plunging a scalpel into your hand, severing nerves and leaving you bleeding all over the camera as you struggle to shut off the stream. Sometimes it’s opening your inbox to find threatening messages with too many details for you to dismiss. 

You survive.

You might not be at the top, in any sense of the word, but you sure as hell aren’t at the bottom. 

When you look for your next target, there are several things you consider. When you were younger, it was just blood type and age— going after an eight sweep year old, even a rust one, could’ve gotten you killed— but you’ve got enough experience under your belt to widen your criteria.

Psionics are unpredictable and can slip out of your control too easily. Their pain tolerance is high, but when they break, they break spectacularly. Their energy is good for your luaus, but only if they’re already weakened. You can’t risk letting her get killed.

She’s the only thing you can rely on.

You scan the streets with your vision threefold. Your reading is stronger than your writing, pulling your attention to weaknesses and worries in the minds and bodies of those you see without too much of an effort. Not many trolls, lowblood or otherwise, go out without a good reason, because they know predators like you will be watching.

You listen for footsteps behind you. 

A bronze blood scitters across the street, fast, with knives strapped to her belt. She’s got scars on her face from some kinda burn— a late morning spent drunk on an ex’s faygo, her memories inform you— but they don’t impair her vision enough to slow her down.

You’d take her ability to run first, because she takes pride in it. That much is evident in her tight shorts and lean legs. You’d smash those toes, leaving her struggling to stand.


	4. Thoughts on Candy! Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you know the drill on this one: candy karkat

Jane Crocker and you have clashed directly three times.

The first time was a long time ago. It was back when all of you were still pretending to be friends, even though, beneath the layers of civility, the battle lines were being drawn. 

Her words held plausibly denial menace. They were statements of facts without context, and when you’d chime in to add it, she’d purse her lips and tut. She was merely articulating the concerns of the conveniently absent masses, she’d say.

As if she didn’t own all the news outlets that told those masses what they should be concerned about. As if those numbers and statistics they showed on those programs weren’t at all calculated by her think tanks. 

You’d scowled when she’d showed a winning smile. Those teeth were soft edged, unlike your jagged fangs, and they were pearly white. Perfect. None of them were missing from a close call with a drone or chipped from a brawl with a neighbor. She didn’t react to sudden noises like you did. She didn’t have to. 

Jane had grown up with half hearted assassination attempts, a problem most trolls would’ve literally killed for. Even the sea dwellers you knew, secure in their position on top of the bullshit caste system, faced harsher trials.

Not all humans lived that way. You knew this, in intimate detail, from Dave. Half of what he told you about their world was bullshit, at best, but you knew enough had to be true. 

(In later years, Rose elaborates on what he did say and what he didn’t.)

Yet she was confident, despite her inexperience. Too proud to admit when she didn’t know enough to make a judgement. Too proud to even consider the possibility. Her voice didn’t falter when she spoke, even when you yelled at her.

Even when you poured everything you had into your voice. Every last drop of passion, every rage and indignation. You screamed because she wasn’t listening. Your words were direct, accusatory, and heartfelt, but she wasn’t listening.

Empty reassurances. Her eyes didn’t see you then, not as a fully fledged person. All she saw was your value as a tool, and you were done with being used. 

You disappeared one night, not too long afterwards, and left a note for Dave and Jade. Rose and Kanaya kept you safe in the network of caves and tunnels beneath the planet’s skin as you started to organize. They called you leader sarcastically, and it stuck. 

Your face was on missing posters for a while there. They featured Crockercorp’s logo in the bottom corner, and that dug at you. It didn’t take long for you to form plans.

These plans put you at the forefront of the action, sickle in hand. Kanaya warned you it wasn’t a good idea and suggested you let someone else take the charge, but you didn’t listen. She’d stopped arguing after Rose whispered something in her ear and looked resigned. Looking back on it, you know she was right, but back then, you couldn’t let anyone else put themselves at risk for what you saw as your fight.

The explosives went off at the right time. Smoke bloomed in the night. You’d picked a building that was supposed to be evacuated but hadn’t accounted for


	5. Thoughts on Vriska Maryam-Lalonde

You’re not scared easily. 

It’s encoded in your genetics, in every cell of your body. The blood that runs through your veins, arteries and capillaries alike, is a deep cerulean. Your touch isn’t cold, but it’s far from the warmth of your friends and your Mom. Mother’s touch is closer, but still not quite the same. 

Your curved horns, hooked inwards on one side and a semi circle on the other, mark you, as clearly as your last names do. When humans see you, they get nervous, even the ones who are rebels or hold sympathies. Some trolls too, actually, though


	6. Thoughts on Tyzias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> again

You’ve known your world was a broken one for a some time now. It took you until half a sweep ago for you to articulate that thought, in the privacy of your thinkpan, but even before then, you’ve felt profoundly uncomfortable with the world around you.

Even then, even with that moment of clarity, you didn’t understand. You wouldn’t say you understand now, not exactly, because you know that arrogant assumption could be dangerous. 

Dangerous. 

You feel nauseated. Your lunch is threatening to rise back up, but you force yourself to swallow. You cannot show weakness. Sympathy for the accused, especially the accused in a case like this, could very well be a fatal misstep, especially with Tegiri as your partner. 

It’s hard to keep your face neutral. The scene is front of you is... You can’t settle on an adjective to describe it. No word could encompass what you’re feeling. 

The troll is older than you, by a few sweeps. Not too far off from exile. His blood is a thick olive, closer to mustard yellow than it is your teal, which you know because it’s all over his limp body. You’ve talked to a few olives in your life, in brief and furtive conversations, but you don’t recognize this one. A small mercy. 

When you brush your fingers over his wrist, he feels warm. Your first thought is to assume he has a fever, even though you know it’s natural for body temperatures to vary from caste to caste. 

His eyes are closed, but when you touch him, he flinches beneath your skin. The drone identified him as Synder Aliren, though you’re not sure how. He wasn’t even wearing his sign, which was a reckless act. As reckless as telling an high blood to fuck off because she wasn’t any better then him. 

You’re not sure whether he’s lucky that he survived the beating she gave him, that she called a drone rather than leave him to die. This way, he survived for longer, you suppose, but not for long. 

He looks sturdy enough, with well defined muscles, but even with that strength and the purrbeastlike reflexes most olives possess, he wouldn’t be able to win that fight. Even if he had, it wasn’t like he’d just


	7. That Coffee Shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starring Alt Calliope and Aradia. Also, Dirk tried to take over.

Your name is Aradia Megido, and you are at the best coffee shop in town. It’s a place you haven’t ventured into since before the bad days. 

Paradox Space. 

The hand painted sign outside is somewhat chipped from time’s slow influence, and when you open the door, the bells chime their soft memory. The scent of freshly brewed espresso wafts through the building, reaching your nose as you breath in deeply. 

There’s some people sitting at tables, sipping at their drinks with their computers out as they study for tests or work on projects. A chubby goth girl with blonde hair and a headband that you’ve never seen before shares a cup with Kanaya in the corner. 

The person at the counter has dead eyes. Their white hair is a mess. Not the sort of cute Instagramable mess that Eridan posts, which you know he’s spent literal hours mussing and playing with to get “just right.” No, their mess is the kind that happens when you don’t shower for a week because you have too many essays and exams, and you think running your fingers through your tangles is enough to make yourself presentable except it’s not. They see you but they don’t look.

You know that look. Intimately. 

“welcome to paradox space, what flavor do you want to explore today,” they say. It sounds less like a question and more like a statement, one weighted with obligation. The fancy phrasing feels fake. 

Beneath the tangles, their skin is freckled with dots that cover their cheeks like stars in the night sky. Every time you blink, you spot a different pattern. A constellation.

You pull your gaze away from their face and examine the menu for some moments, noting a few interesting additions since you were last here. It’s been so long since you’ve drank anything other than that cheap black espresso, made in your old machine that never tasted like anything anyway. 

“a mocha float please! large with vanilla ice cream.” 

You’re going to try everything here. 

They nod, barely, and pull a cup off of a pile without looking. 

“your name is?”

“aradia megido.” 

Their expression changes for less than a second. 

“megido,” they repeat, without the awkward pronunciation you’ve come to expect from strangers. They must know your sister, somehow, though you’re not sure how. She’s not exactly the kind of person who frequents quaint coffee shops.

“whats yours?”

You aren’t sure what possesses you to ask. Maybe it’s the dark shadows beneath their hauntingly beautiful green eyes. Maybe it’s the fact they recognize their last name, somehow. Maybe it’s because, beneath the mask of apathy it seems they’re intent on presenting to the world, there’s a spark of energy, burning strong and bright. 

“calliope,” they say as they write your name on the cup, holding the sharpie in their left hand, without making any of the usual spelling errors. Their nails are unexpectedly painted green, and you spot a tattoo of an ouroborous on their wrist. 

In strides a person who’s not mature enough for you to call a man but not innocent enough for you to call a boy. He wears sunglasses with sharp points, even though the sky outside is as gloomy as ever. His shirt is a size too small and is tight against his muscular chest. He has perfectly spiked hair, the kind of hair you only have if you’re a Hollywood actor or if you spend hours in the bathroom every morning. You think you might recognize him, but you’re not sure from where. 

The goth who’s seemingly on a date with your childhood friend raises her eyebrows at his appearance. Not angry, you decide, just surprised. 

Callie, on the other hand, seems furious, albeit in a dignified manner. Their eyes narrow, and there’s a permeable change in the energy of the room. If you were the person that glare was pointed at, you might just shrivel up from shame, but he doesn’t as much as flinch. Instead, he steps further in with a cocky grin. Just seeing it makes you want to hit him.

“dirk strider,” they say, every syllable measured and calculated to express maximum distain. They slowly crush the cup in their hands, which are much stronger than you would’ve first thought. Callie’s eyes catch his, behind the shades. Everyone in the cafe is trying hard to pretend that they aren’t watching this confrontation, you included. There’s a tension between them so thick you could swim in it. An ex boyfriend, maybe? You’re embarrassed to find the idea makes you disappointed. “Calliope Muse,” he says, and you’re impressed by the amount of bile he forces into the two words. You note they told you a nickname and can’t keep your heart from fluttering. “i have no time for your shit right now. we cannot all have the tragic misfortune of being born as wealthy pretty boys, and, unlike you, i have an actual job.” 

Their faint British accent makes their words sound refined and polished. Sharp, even.

Dirk doesn’t appear to be caught off guard by the barb or the venom behind it. Still, he steps forward, foot on the floor harder than he needs to. It’d be intimidating, if it wasn’t so petty. His posturing is just too much. Kanaya tries to conceal her laugh into her drink, but everyone notices and everyone notices each other noticing. 

“Really?” Dirk says, in a paper thin attempt to provoke Callie into saying something. “Are you sure?”

They don’t take the bait, instead using it as a jumping off point for another insult. 

“no, i am rather uncertain on the matter of your attractiveness.” 

“Look who’s talking. You sure you’ve got any grounds to judge my, objectively stunning, good looks on? I mean, seriously, I’d be surprised if anyone found you sexy enough to catcall, let alone fuck.” 

They recoil, and it’s clear he’s touched a nerve. The smirk on his face as he opens his


	8. Sad Dave Boy Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's basically the same as the Thoughts on, except not in second.

It’s not like Dave loves him or anything.

Love is a stupid word, one riddled with cliches. Romance is even worse. It’s plastic and cheap chocolates on Valentine’s day, buying shitty gifts because he’s ‘supposed to.’ Whatever ‘supposed to’ meant. Karkat would call bullshit on that almost as quickly as Dave himself would. 

Rose and Kanaya galavant across the meteor, classically and clichely in love. It’s the most sugary bullshit Dave’s ever seen and he’s seen a lot of shitty romcoms. It’s more obvious than all of his favorite movies and Karkat’s favorite movies shoved in a blender. It’d make Dave sick to his stomach if he wasn’t so happy for them. And jealous too, maybe, because he’s not that simple. 

(Describing Rose and Kanaya with the word simple is absurd. It’s not any sort of simple and if they knew he thought of them like that, they’d likely laugh in his face. But… on the outside, it looks that way.) 

Damn it, did Dave wish he was as simple as they looked. He longed for it, on a level of emotion he’d never admit to having. His core instincts, the ones cultivated by years hiding and fighting for any scrap of whatever twisted affection Bro might deign to throw in his direction refuse to let him believe that maybe he’s safe this time. 

Maybe Karkat won’t break his heart if Dave gives it to him.

On that level, Dave is terrified of admitting his feelings towards Karkat might really be as simple as love because love makes him vulnerable. 

Love blinded him to all of his Bro’s brutality, demanded he give the man who made his life a living hell another chance. Love gagged him when his friends asked him if he was okay.

The sickening cancer Bro called love crippled him with anxiety, with post traumatic stress bullshit disorder, with depression, and with so many other stupid conditions he doesn’t want. 

No, he wasn’t okay. 

It wasn’t okay when Bro nearly killed him multiple times— probably by accident, the guy couldn’t have given a damn about whether Dave lived or died. Dave went back and forth with himself at night, wondering. 

Was Bro’s attitude really contemptuous or plain apathetic? Did it matter? Maybe. Would he really have let Dave die? Maybe. Was it his fault or did Lil Cal somehow play a part? Maybe. 

Maybe this, maybe that. There were too many fucking maybes in Dave’s life. 

Karkat doesn't do maybes.

He's a hell fucking yes or a hell fucking no. Karkat always says what he’s feeling and damnit, Dave wishes he could be that forthcoming with his emotions. Karkat is intense and real. When Dave drifts off into dissociation, Karkat pulls him back into reality. His loud voice is so much better than the haunting silence where anything or anyone could be lurking. His touch is firm, tight, and ever present. He doesn’t vanish in a blur like Bro did. Why can’t he stop thinking about Bro?

It's wrong for him to like this the way he does. But it's right too. There was a troll shaped hole in his heart and he didn’t realize it until now.

Dave thought he’d hate Karkat’s rants when they first met in real life. Wasn’t one mutant red loudmouth enough for the team? But no, it’s charming and adorable. Too charming, in a way he can’t explain with all of the words he spits out to everyone else. 

Dave doesn’t know if he can stand this strange limbo between them for much longer. Is there something there or is it wishful thinking? The concept of wishful thinking is absurd. Would the nebulous something be good or bad? It feels right, but he knows it can’t be. 

Everything he’s read, watched, and known since he was dropped onto Earth by a meteor who knows how long ago tells him to hate this. Whatever this is. So why doesn’t he? Why does his godly heart beat so much fucking faster when that asshole is around?

Karkat. Damn it. 

Dave takes a quick breath and then lets it go just as fast as he’d took it in the first place. All the frustration towards the troll he’d began to cultivate inexplicably vanishes. He can’t figure it out. Why can’t his head keep still? Dave’s flipping back and forth on the inside, like some sort of maniac. 

He wants to blame Karkat. It’s not fair of Dave to push these feelings onto him, but he can’t help the way he thinks, no matter how much he tries. And Dave really does try. He tried with Jade and look how that turned out.

Sometimes he reads through his old pesterlogs with her like some sort of clingy loser. He’s pretty sure Rose does the same thing, in her own OCD way, but at least she keeps up a pretense of ‘researching’ the consequences of their session.

If that’s what she was really up to, then she wouldn’t have spent the first year on the meteor crying herself to sleep.

Everything Dave said to Jade sounds stupid in retrospective. Every word was so obviously either him begging for someone to help him or an over the top attempt to impress her. He did care about her-- their friendship stretched back since he’d first discovered the internet-- but not in the right way. Not in the normal way.

Dave never felt the butterflies in his stomach or lost heartbeats looking into her eyes. The idea of touching her lips with his own was odd and unnatural. Whenever he imagined her, his thoughts drifted away to a different person all together.

Karkat. 

Even his name brought confusion, frustration, and longing. Confusion, because Dave doesn’t know how to reconcile his obvious feelings for Karkat with the ideas of masculinity he’d been spoon fed since his strange birth. He’d never been spoon fed, actually. Maybe being a paradox clone kept him from starving to death because Bro only remembered to throw food in his general direction every now and then. 

Frustration, because the confusion was growing old quick and because his own sickening self hatred refused to let him alone for five seconds. 

Longing, because he’s everything Dave needs. He’s loud when Dave can’t tolerate the deafening silence. He’s surprisingly muscular and good with his sickle, despite being one of the few on the meteor without any extra powers granted by alien vampirism or being a god tier. He’s kind, beneath all the bluster. He’s vulnerable, in all the ways that make Dave vulnerable too. He hates it. He has to hate it. Clearly that’s this intense emotion boiling under his skin. The reason his face is flushing when they touch has got to be anger. That asshole. That fucking asshole.

'That asshole' rests head in Dave’s lap as they watch a shitty rom com. His gray skin is rougher and chillier than Dave’s, and his hair grows upwards and out, instead of down like humans. Karkat’s ears are pointed, almost like elves, and sometimes he does things that don’t make much sense from Dave’s human view. 

The quadrants are only the beginning of bizarre social norms. He can wrap his brain around the idea of blood castes relatively easily but when Karkat began to go into a lecture about the juggalo cult in charge of the justice system-- which was apparently a mixture of bounty hunting lawyers and stand up comedy-- he bursts into laughter. 

It was easier to take Terezi’s monologues seriously, with all of her morbid jokes and talk of smelling colors. (He wouldn’t say it but he was sort of relieved she repaired her relationship with Vriska instead of continuing whatever it was they’d started.) 

Trolls aren’t the sort of aliens Dave expected to exist in the real world. He’d never believed their shit, until it was proven true by events in SBURB. Maybe he’d have believed it more if it sounded less cliche. Although… Now that he considered it, trolls might be the origin of all those cliches in sci-fi. He’d never thought about it that way. 

Rose probably figured that out the instant she got seer powers. He made a mental note to hassle her about it. Having a sort of sister with a vast library of random knowledge was convenient, if eerie at times. Her insights could be borderline spooky at times, no, incredibly spooky. One moment she’s making a dick joke and the next she’s connecting his random comment to the ‘multi universal subconscious’ or some other sort of bullshit.

He doesn’t understand half of what she says, but her points tend to be valid. Trolls are interesting, both for their differences and for their similarities.

All of the trolls have slightly deeper voices than humans. When Karkat’s rants get too long, his voice grows deeper instead of squeaky. Their slang and words for body parts are different too, but after just a few weeks, the meteor crew began to create their own vernacular: a mix of human and troll terms, with new ones nobody quite remembers the origin of thrown in. 

The movie Karkat and Dave are watching a troll one. Dave doesn’t really understand the quadrant stuff, but he exaggerates his confusion about it to irritate Karkat, mostly because Karkat likes getting irritated.The movies are actually interesting, mostly in the sense of ‘they’re so shitty they’re funny’ but there are a few genuine gold mines. The one they’re currently watching is not among those. The actors look bored and the dialogue is cheesy, at best. Despite the subpar quality, Karkat is completely absorbed in it. His golden eyes are eerie. Dave likes them.

He likes it when Karkat focuses on him like he's the only boy in the world. As he watched a scene where the cerulean blood protagonist fought her teal blood ‘kismesis’ with swords as some sort of bizarre date, Dave realized: the strict structure and rules for how trolls love are just stupid as they are for humans. 

He’d been getting too caught up in the differences to realize the absurdity isn’t because they’re aliens. It’s because they’re living creatures and their media is bullshit. Karkat isn’t like any of those loud heroic trolls whose hang ups about romance can be solved with the love or the right fun loving ‘low blood’ who teaches him how to enjoy life. And Dave isn’t a cool guy, a tough guy, a macho guy... he’s not Bro and he doesn’t want to be Bro. 

Dave’s life was shaped by Bro from day one. Ever since he was shot from space on a bloody meteor, he was watched by that speed demon. Maybe Bro genuinely had good intentions at one point, but Dave couldn’t tell what they were. He wished Bro had dropped him off at some shitty orphanage instead. At least then he could’ve had a chance to be something other than this train wreck. 

Dave didn’t remember the first time Bro attacked him with a sword. He didn’t remember the first time he held a sword. His oldest memory was of Lil Cal’s disturbing smile haunting him as he cried himself to sleep. At three years old. Pre-SBURB life was never ending nightmare of smuppet ass and brutal beatdowns in the burning Texan sun. 

SBURB might’ve ruined Dave’s life but at the same time, it saved him from the living hell reality was. He understood that know and he hated himself for now realizing it earlier.

Karkat relaxes beneath Dave’s touch. When Dave runs his fingers through his hair, he practically purrs. Dave keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. One of these days, something would have to give. Karkat would see the broken side of him. He’s not a reluctant hero. He’s a coward. Eventually, Karkat is going to see past the walls he’s built. Then this, whatever this is, will end. He’ll be alone again. …it’s not that time yet. He can continue this selfish facade for a little bit longer. Just a tiny bit. By the time the movie is over, Karkat’s asleep. He snores softly. Dave would’ve thought he’d be as loud in his sleep as he was awake, but he was wrong. Karkat defied all of his expectations. 

When it’s late in the time of ‘day’ everyone just decided to sleep at to make scheduling less confusing and the meteor is dark, Dave starts to think.The silence is expectant, waiting for the slash of a sword or the quiet footsteps of a dead man. Dave can’t close his eyes without remembering. In between heart beats is everything that was and everything that will be. He doesn’t want to think but his thoughts are so loud. 

There is no escape. Even if he does dream, his nightmares will follow him as memories. His brain is the loudest thing of all and he starts panicking. He breathes in and out, but the air is sharp and he’s hyperventilating. He can’t breath. The smile of the puppets, the sword, the fucking sword. He’d nearly died several times, to Bro. 

On some level, Dave started to believe all the shit Bro would say or imply with his fucking smirk and all he can think about is Lil Cal and the hell puppet’s smirk and grin and he hates this he hates this about him and—and he can’t he can’t breath. He’s a god tier, shouldn’t he be able to beat this? He should be able to be stronger. He should... he shouldn't be whatever this is. He's a fucking god, right? Right? What god tier's a coward? He’s a coward, a failure, but then— he-- he 

Damnit. He's staring at his nails and they're scratching his arms. He can't breath and he's trying to escape with the pain. It doesn't help. He's crying and doesn't understand why. He can't breath. He can't breath. He fucked up. He fucked up. He-- he...

All of a sudden, Karkat’s there.

He's standing in the door way. He's saying he couldn’t sleep either, that was in the room next door and heard Dave’s screaming. Dave didn’t even realize he’d been screaming. Dave closed his eyes, squinting them shut, and opened them again. Karkat is really standing in the doorway. Not Bro with a sword in one hand and Lil Cal in the other. He’s not being woken up for a beat down. Karkat’s asking if he’s okay and Dave’s not, but now he’s here so maybe it’s a little okay. Dave can breath all of a sudden. They’re not even breaths and his heart is still racing, but he knows where he is. 

“LOOK, YOU FUCKING MORON,” Karkat starts and then sighs. 

He looks at Dave and then at himself. (Dave wouldn’t be able to tell if not for the fact troll eyes glow in the dark like cats.) 

“SCOOT OVER.” Dave wonders if he heard right, but Karkat is climbing into the bed he alchemized on the first day here. This is wrong, Dave knows on some level. But he couldn’t care because Karkat’s here and now everything is a little less wrong. 

They don’t touch but his very presence helps chase away the nightmares that come when he’s wide awake. After all, the one thing he’d never had when Bro was there was an ally. Sure, he’d had Jade, John, and Rose, but they never understood. He didn’t try to tell them, really, maybe because he was scared they wouldn’t get it. Or maybe because he was scared they would. 

Karkat knows the feeling. From what Dave figured out from Rose’s ramblings and troll romcoms, candy red blood is a mutation. If the troll empress found out, Karkat probably would’ve been killed for it. The bluster is a self defense mechanism. He gets that. He does that too. 

Eventually, they pull into each other and start cuddling for real. Dave's head is in Karkat's chest and he can hear his alien heart pounding in its alien way. The beats are just a bit slower than Dave's and it's strange, in a good way. He lies there, cuddling in a perverted and natural way, and considers Karkat. 

He has candy blood, the same shade as Dave’s unnatural eyes. He was dating Terezi at one point, somehow, in a troll way. Terezi ignored them both once she’d repaired her friendship and maybe troll romance with Vriska. It stung a bit for Dave but it’s nothing he couldn’t get over. Three days of flirting through shitty memes and comics means nothing in comparison to a lifelong murder bond. 

Karkat took it harder. 

Dave couldn’t be surprised, because Karkat took everything hard. But after Karkat finished moping, he stopped isolating himself. Was it a coincidence the heads over heels romantics got together not too long after Dave split off to spend more time with Karkat? Maybe. Or maybe Dave split off to spend time with Karkat because they’d gotten together. Who could tell? Paradox space worked in mysterious ways. Karkat mentioned Jade every now and then. They’d both started some sort of vague flirtation with her but after months of not seeing her, both of their feelings had waned from romantic to… something else. Dave wonders if he’d ever liked Jade in any capacity beyond friendship. Jade had for him, clearly, but maybe he’d been flirting back because that was expected of him. 

The next ‘day,’ something changed. There was an air of excitement between the power duo of Vriska and Terezi. Apparently the elusive juggalo revealed himself to Terezi and shit had gone down. Dave had to get the story from Rose because Karkat was on a strict No Murder Game Girls policy— which Dave figured was a pretty good policy. Apparently the clown troll, Gamzee, made a slimy proposal to Terezi. Not in the only quadrant that made sense to Dave— the plain old love one— but the hate one. It didn’t really make sense to him that a hate proposal could be lewd and slimy— wasn’t that the point— but apparently it’d been pretty bad because only the assurances Vriska had already taken care of him kept Kanaya from chopping him into fifty different pieces with her chainsaw. 

Dream bubbles were odd. Not just the concept as a whole, although meeting hundreds of versions of his maybe-almost-not-quite boyfriend was pretty strange. Mostly, the oddities of it. How one second he could be standing in his old room and the next in the middle of some Alternian desert. He understood how it worked better then quite a few of the others because of the time thing but it was still trippy as hell. Mercifully, their guardians never showed up as more than memories. He knew he should guilty for being grateful about that, because Rose would’ve done anything to see her mom again. But the overpowering sense of relief couldn’t be held back. What did it even mean about


	9. Polypa Does A Hit (On The Heiress)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she gets hired by doc scratch

To Kill A Princess

Polypa was known for being indiscriminating when taking on assignments. That was why her services cost so much, after all. Still, this latest job was risky enough to make even her hesitate. The reward her client offered was absurdly high but was it really worth it?

Trizza Telthis.

Polypa’d killed violet bloods in the past, enough that guaranteed if she was caught, it wouldn’t be a question of if she would be put to the irons but of how hot they would be. But the heiress was on an entirely different level. Most violet bloods could be downed with a knife to the right spot coated with the right stuff but a fuchsia blood? Nothing more than the complete destruction of her bloodpusher or thinkpan would do. Decapitation or bisection should work but managing to get her vulnerable for long enough to pull that off... it’d be difficult. 

She examined the client’s chittr profile and found it a complete mystery. Not even a blood color to his name. How did he type in white like that? The sort of hacking skills required to trick chittr like that indicated mustard but no mustard she knew had that sorta cash to throw around.

Billions. That was a number in the billions. Polypa’d be set for life, assuming she didn’t get herself killed. She could catch a ship headed for the outsides of the galaxy where nobody’d question her. 

HK: thats gonna be * near impossible to * pull off *|  
HK: you got a plan * already or * am i supposed to come up * with one myself cause thatll cost extra *|  
You’ll be provided with an opportunity.   
HK: cough it up *|  
Would planet wide civil unrest qualify as a sufficient distraction?  
I presume you’ll be able to take it from there.  
Your criminal record speaks volumes.  
HK: planet wide civil * unrest? *|  
HK: now youre talking nonsense thats not * gonna * happen *|  
It’s already in motion.   
HK: so whens this so called revolution gonna go down *|  
It begins in three months, two days, eight hours, two minutes, and twenty eight seconds.  
Although the initial catalyst is one month, three days, and two hours away.   
HK: those sure are some * specific numbers you got there *|  
HK: what do you know *|  
Quite a bit. Everything, to be more precise.   
HK: how can i know youre * reliable *|  
That is a valid point, Polypa Goezee.   
HK: how * do you know my name *|  
HK: thats a secret


	10. Some Really Old Soft Callroxy Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is short.

When Roxy touches Calliope, it’s nothing like she’s ever felt before. Her hands don’t grip her skin too tight. Her fingers don’t twist her flesh in painful ways and her nails don’t dig themselves into her skin. She doesn’t laugh when she cries.

She does something even scarier.

She listens.

Her eyes are filled with an emotion Calliope had never seen before her. She wouldn’t even have the word for it if Roxy hadn’t whispered it to her in a voice chat in the middle of the night. Kindness, she’d said, it’s called kindness, in her soft voice that only ever grew angry towards them.


	11. Vrisrezi Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i think that's what it's called anyway

“I’m just like her, aren’t I?” Vriska whispered as Terezi held her close. Terezi ran her fingers through Vriska’s hair, pulling it away from the mangled flesh she usually covered with her eyepatch. Terezi couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see how ugly she was, on the inside and on the out. 

“Nope,” Terezi said. Her fingers were so soft but Vriska knew she had scars too. 

“Liar,” Vriska muttered and Terezi laughed her high pitch nasal giggle. Her body shook with the movement, never once letting up. Nobody told Terezi Pyrope what to do. 

She’d have strangled Aranea in her sleep the moment she was old enough to understand what she was doing. She’d probably came out of the womb on a hunt for JUST1C3, as she put it. What was Vriska doing in a hero’s bed? 

“Probably,” Terezi said. She moved her hands down to caress Vriska’s shoulders, bare skin touching her bra. It felt good. “But she isn’t here. You’ll never have to see her again.” 

“What if she comes back for me?” Vriska hater how small she sounded. The weakness in her voice was that of a petulant child who hadn’t yet learned how cruel the world could be. And it could be cruel. So very cruel.


	12. Ardata + Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was from before the friendsim, so no quirk. Kinda gorey.

Ardata ran her finger along the smooth end of her knife as the troll attached to the pillar in the center of her basement cried. The camera was rolling behind her, fans cheering in the comments on her stream. They wanted a show and she’d give it to them. She stepped around the troll in iron chains, sharp nails like claws with their perfectly applied blue and gold polish. She smiled and showed her fangs in the faint golden light. 

“Hello and welcome back to the Gore Room. I’m your host, Ardata Carmia. Our special guest today is a seven and a half year old sweep bronze blood. His interests include listening to and playing music, but his band’s first album was so offensive, I simply had to prevent him from making anymore of it.” She paused her spiral around him to stand in front of him and place her left hand on his shoulder. He tried to rip out of her grip but she was too strong and the chains around his neck were too short for him to escape.

“If you’re interested in having your insides torn out through your ears like I was, his music can be found at volume precipitation dot com slash shades of brown but I don’t recommend it for anyone but the most masochistic of trolls.” 

She placed her knife on his cheek, letting the serrated blade barely graze the skin for a few moments. He stayed deathly still as to avoid making the soon to be injury worse. “Put on a good show, okay?” she stage whispered in his ear loud enough for the audience to hear. “Since it’s the thing you failed at so badly in life.” Sepia trails of sweat dripped down his face.

She began to place pressure on the blade. He screamed and even that was too squeaky for her to take seriously. 

“Actually,” she mused. “Your screaming voice is just as annoying as your singing and speaking one. How about I start by cutting off your tongue?”

“Please, no,” he begged. “Please.” 

“I think I’ll leave it up to the stream,” she decided, pulling the knife away. He tried to move his arms to do something— try to cover the wound, maybe— but they were cuffed behind his back in three different ways. An olive blood she’d streamed once managed to escape her handcuffs so from then on, she was extra careful.

Even the momentary reprieve made him let out a sigh of relief, so she spun around and shoved the blade into his shoulder. He screamed again, wriggling around his restraints like a dead fish. She kicked him in his exposed stomach and the steel toed boots she wore turned a painful blow that’d leave bruises into something far worse. He gasped for breath as she turn towards her computer to set up a poll. 

Her gray fingers with the dark blue veins beneath them tapped away for a few seconds before the option popped up. As the votes rolled in, she pulled anotjer


	13. vriska is, at the oldest, 13 when she paralyzes tavros isnt that fucked up

Stop looking at me, Vriska wanted to scream. Looking, looking, looking-- those eyes. Her fists tightened in her pockets. If she didn’t shove them down, she might’ve used those fingers to gauge his eyes out. Hate flared up in her chest. His eyes kept following her figure no matter what she did. No matter what she said, no matter what she did… He wanted her. He’d never say that. He said she scared him, that she was mean and wouldn’t leave him alone, but it was obvious. So damn obvious. His cheeks screamed red. When she walked by him, he wilted. Fear. That was the sign of love, wasn’t it?

Tavros’s stumbling words built up in Vriska’s mind, playing over and over. He trembled like a leaf in a hurricane and she wanted-- needed-- to tear out his tongue. He’d never last a second in her shoes. He’d fall to pieces at the first scream that came through her house’s thin walls. She was the strong one. She had to be strong. The only way to survive in her life was to be strong. Vriska shook from anger, didn’t she? Not pity. She’d never pity herself because if she allowed herself to start doing that, she’d fall to so many different pieces she’d never pull herself back together again. 

Red lines dripped from her palm from where her nails dug into her flesh. It barely hurt anymore. Layers of scar tissue covered her sensitive skin, from long nights of hearing strangers cry and scream, knowing she could’ve and should’ve done something. Anything, really. She said it wasn’t her fault. That when she did try to interfere, she’d go after her instead. Kicked in the side-- again, again, again. Bloodied and broken. Selfish. Selfish Vriska. Queen of self interest. She’ll lie and lie and lie, digging herself deeper. She’ll tell you she loves you one day and threatens to kill you the next, right? Right? 

He haunted her. He haunted her because he was weak. She was strong. She didn’t care about anything but herself. Only the strong deserved anything. Deserve? Vriska didn’t deserve anything, she demanded what she wanted. Needed.


	14. Post-Retcon Vrisrezi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow i wrote a lot about vrisrezi

It took a while for everyone but Vriska and Terezi to clear off the top of the meteor. Everyone was asking stupid questions and receiving equally stupid answers on subjects more moronic than both combined, even with Vriska taking over leadership once she’d recovered. Terezi was content to stand back and let her call the mostly pointless shots. Dave kept looking at her like he expected her to do something. She’d told him a lot about Vriska, about as much as she’d told Karkat. He probably assumed that was all there was to know about them. She hadn’t precisely lied about anything to him or Karkat. She’d just selectively distributed facts that she knew would trigger certain emotional reactions in them. Or, in layman’s terms, manipulated the two cherry red boys into telling her exactly what she thought she wanted to hear. 

They left, eventually. 

Only Vriska stayed behind with her. Her blueberry blood beneath her gray skin no longer stunk of deception, just regret. Not that she’d admit she felt that way out loud, of course. Terezi could smell right her now she’d stopped letting his


	15. A Paragraph Of Sad Vriska

Vriska threw up the first time she killed a troll.

He was younger than her. His brown blood was a common hue. Even if she hadn’t killed him, he was so naive. One high blood or another would’ve offed him eventually. Even if he survived to exile, lowbloods like him had a tiny life expectancy in comparison to a cerulean blood like Vriska. It was a worthy trade. His life for another few weeks of hers.

Her lusus mocked her for her shaking hands for weeks.


	16. Humanstuck Terezi Does A Murder (On Mindfang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its in second person

Dark crimson pools spread out around her head. The first wound had been a blunt blow to the head. Whether or not it had been the killing blow was probably irrelevant. There was no way she could be alive after the sharp cane thrust through her chest. The blood dripped down her chin. 

The killer’s eyes were dark. The expression hidden within them could’ve been anything. Angry, perhaps? If she was, it was not without justification. The now corpse had long since given her reason to know hate. It might’ve been guilt or sorrow. No matter who she was or what she’d done, the body in front of her had once been her closest friend’s mother. She might’ve been curling her lips in disgust at the woman’s deeds. She might be a murderer now but she still allowed herself to feel superior to the body. She’d never prey on someone weaker than herself. 

She didn’t know if this was the right move to make. Nobody had prepared her for this boiling hatred and the overpowering demand for justice to be served. The body had known the law. She’d played the system like a fiddle, stringing the investigation along with a spider web of lies. Her partner in crime provided the instruments to do so. She enacted their schemes, paying him what he demanded with sadistic glee. The killer understood how the body would never be punished for her numerous offenses 

Hence, the sharpened halves of her walking cane in the body’s chest. The iron taste of blood could’ve been delicious to her delicate nose, if it didn’t stink of death and guilt. Her sour odor carried over onto her corpse. 

The killer grabbed the first weapon she’d used— a shovel— and began to scoop the dirt aside. The musky smell of the forest hung outside of the crime scene, as if horrified into submission by the brutal occurrence. 

A golden libra pendant dangled out of her dark clothes. She paused her digging to shove it back under her shirt. It rested coldly on her skin, above her heart.


	17. Grimdark Rose With Flowery Prose

Grimdark.

Heart pounding, Rose LaLonde whispered her question to the mysterious white orb. Light shone from her eye, brilliant and blinding and the surface melted beneath her vision omnifold. Red and white signals flashed as it moved to determine her answer. 

The answer, of course, could not be expressed in words. She had asked for the motivation of something ancient and unknowable. Impossible to express in a yes/no. Rose had known that, always and never. The orb responded by showing her the void in its entirety. 

Darkness.

Unimaginable darkness. Void, without end and without beginning. 

There was no past, no future, no present-- just unimaginably vast existence. Curls of tentacles and limbs stretched around her, cutting and pulling her into a new shape. She was... nothing. 

The only knowledge she could glean from this perpetual void was powerlessness and a sense that everything had been in vain. She had no body in this emptiness but she could see out of a thousand eyes.

Lights of bubbles floating by illuminated the emptiness, but they popped as easily as they formed. The void cracked and rainbows shot through it. She screamed as if she was the void and whatever was breaking the void was breaking her. 

The colors were the blood of the universe where there should be nothing. She reached out for a crack with her mind, but they vanished as easily as they came. Rose found herself staring at the her from only a few minutes ago and what she saw was terrifying. 

Violet light streamed out of her trembling fingers, cascading into the nothing she embraced full heartedly. Cackles of an unusually white and green stranger seemed to cross the universe as the whispers of the horrorterrors grew to screams, demanding she descend. She closed her eyelids for a moment but found herself lost in that very void again. Instead, she focused on the bloody imagery of her mother's unfair murder.

This was not justice. The death of her mother and John's father was a robbery. A brutal act of petty boredom by a malicious god. If she stayed here and continued her search for knowledge, he would be free to kill again and again. 

Rose had the power of the Furthest Ring at her needletips now. She would not go to seek justice or to stop a dangerous threat. That would be a lie and the void light streaming around her had no time for lies. It demanded action, just like the small Rose inside of Rose was screaming and crying for help. 

Her motivation outweighed the part of her that still worried about silly concepts like plans and logic. She was allied to the Noble Circle of Horrorterrors and she would not back down into submission like a coward.

Rose Lalonde would seek revenge. 

The whispers of the horrorterrors had infected her waking hours, insisting that she make him pay, make him pay, make him pay. Her white eyes landed briefly on the white orb. Rose would make the mysterious stranger who spoke only in white pay too. He played no small part in this fate of hers. 

He’d distracted her for long enough. His day would come. For now, she had bigger prey to hunt.

The darkness that engulfed her disguised her and gave her the strength beyond her reach. Was this what the troll Kanaya had meant by blacking out? Almost certainly. The bloodeldritch throes had caught her almost entirely unprepared, like the tears springing up in the corner of her eyes. 

She didn't care about tears or foolish emotions like grief. Only one thought she'd maintained from before looking into the void itself remained in the twisted knot of Rose's remaining sanity and that was the thirst for revenge. She would rip Jack Noir into pieces with her bare hands if that was what it took. Rage was not red. Rage was a dark purple that spread throughout her like a virus. 

"Do not be alarmed," Rose Lalonde advised her Complacency, but it came out in the broodfester tongues as a a mix of fifty thousand tortured hellscholars screaming and sobbing in unison, demanding freedom from the abyss that had ensnared them easily. 

Her skin darkened from a deep tan into a pasty gray and her hair turned from dirty blond to shocking white. She breathed in and out with black smoke as a storm following her was born. No, Rose was wrong in that moment. The storm did not follow her. She was the storm. Her wands shot bolts of lighting and she tightened her grip on them. Her lavender painted nails were bleached white. Seconds passed sluggishly as she slammed closed her computer with enough force to break it. The screen cracked and with that, Rose lunged into the sky.

Rose didn't know how she knew she could fly upon going grimdark, it was just something she understood. Her claim as a seer of light renounced, she demanded mastery of witchlike dark powers. And the void was ever so happy to supply her with ammunition to fuel her descent into the fabled blackdeath of the woegothics. Unfathomable depths, darker than the sweet embrace of death that Jack Noir had mercilessly thrust upon her only family, swallowed the planet whole. Rose's desperate rage filled flight towards Skaia was not fast enough to escape the truth. Her mother and maybe even potential stepfather were slaughtered by a monster. He would pay for his crimes and she would be the instrument of revenge. She moved to a symphony of despair, unknowingly and accidentally orchestrated by the horrorterrors and controlled by the mysterious First Guardian who spoke only in white.

White and purple sparks of electricity shot towards Skaia and the near annihilated ruins of Prospit. They were the harbinger of a hero gone off the deep end in every which way, also known as a hero of light gone grimdark.


	18. First Person Rosemary

Faint notes of music drifted from my phone. I’d turned up the volume as high as it could go but it didn’t fill the entire room. That’s okay, though. Kanaya said she didn’t like the stereos Dave set up for his room because her rainbow drinker senses made the sound near deafening and the vibrations too distracting. We’re standing around in one of the many rooms with vague purposes that’d been overtaken by the absurd amount of rubbish. 

She’s looking everywhere but at me. I wonder how I’d ever mistaken her for elegant and graceful. It’s not like Kanaya is clumsy, which she isn’t. But she’s not perfect. Her golden eyes flicker from place to place and what seemed like deft deflections come across as awkward. Instead of being disillusioned, I find her more enchanting. If she was what I’d assumed, then she’d likely be snooty and boring. Her jokes are subtle but that’s the way I like them. She holds my hand and her skin is warmer than mine. I’ve always believed in aliens but I never thought they could be so beautiful. Her proportions are ever so slightly elongated with just a little bit wider eyes, thinner nose, and bigger lips, but the differences only make me more curious. Her nails are harder, more crystalline, but her hair is thinner and curlier.

I take my free hand and place it on Kanaya’s waist. My heart skips a beat and lightly I bite my lip. She looks at mine and somehow knows to put hers on my neck. The heat feels good and she


	19. Rosemary Makeouts

Rose Lalonde was pressed against Kanaya Maryam in a cramped closet kissing like there was no tomorrow and it was absolutely fantastic.

Kanaya's unusual warmth spread from where they touched to every part of Rose's body, sparks of rainbow light shooting off of her skin like ashes floating above a pyre. Rose's deep violet eyes met Kanaya's golden amber ones, and for once in her life, someone didn't find her strange mutation disturbing. The alien girl's deep silvery skin pulsed with jade veins and it pulled her in with an intoxicatingly bizarre gravity. The thick pulsing of an extraterrestrial heart deep within Kanaya's chest made Rose cling even closer. The rainbow drinker's sharp fangs bit the Seer's lower lips, spilling crimson down her chin but it felt good enough to wash away the pain. 

Kanaya's fingers, with their delicately painted emerald polish over her sharp clawlike nails, dug into Rose's back as her arms stretched over her shoulder. Rose let out a short gasp of pleasure as Kanaya's tongue ran its delicate way over her previously perfect lavender lipstick. Drops of Rose's fresh candy red blood were lapped up Kanaya's curious tongue. 

"Okay?" Kanaya asked, as they both paused for breath between their desperate collisions of teenaged desire forged out of layers of sarcasm and more than platonic affection. Rose's trembling fingers found place on Kanaya's collarbone and she lightly traced the line up to her shoulder, ash gray skin a softer texture than her own. 

"Yes," Rose made sure to say, as Kanaya gently pushed her against the closet's wall. "More." Euphoria pulsed in her ascended but still human body. Rose's hands reached for Kanaya's dress straps. She twisted her body to make it easier for Rose to reach, hands finding purchase on the light golden fabric of a dress. A sound caught in Rose's mouth and she ended up kissing Kanaya's neck to stifle it while she undid the wine shaded buttons. 

"Slow," Kanaya pressed in a firm but chemically charged tone. Rose stopped taking the dress off and just touched her lips against her neck, slowly moving downwards. Lines of scars from where Eridan had shot her sprayed outwards in a beautiful and otherworldly configuration. Rose's lavender tinted nails traced across them as their kisses layered. Kanaya shivered at her gentle touch and her bioluminescent skin lit up in response to her fingers. She gently pulled down the dress more.

"Good?" Rose inquired and Kanaya nodded a yes. There wasn't much room in the closet but they didn't need much. Their bodies pressed together, soft and strong at the same time. Neither of them had kissed anyone before. This was extraordinary.

It was indescribable and made Rose want to write a thousand poems to the shape of Kanaya's body at the same time. Kanaya turned again and reached for Rose's golden dress. Rose slipped it down easily. 

“Wow,” Kanaya said, awestruck.


	20. Vrisrezi: Heiresses of Crime and Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a mafia versus lawyer au?

Terezi Pyrope, daughter of the detective Latula Pyrope more commonly known as Redglare, is an interesting mark. 

She left her loose teal jacket unzipped. A patch with her zodiac sign, Libra, was sewn on top of a pocket over her heart. Pyrope's shirt was a tight black crop top and her bare midriff exposed an incredibly muscular abdomen. Her skin was a warm sepia brown and her short cotton candy pink bob looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. Its color had grown out a near black brown at its roots. Vriska noted the collection of books ranging from advanced law, Dungeons and Dragons, and high fantasy novels she carried. They piled high, seemingly treacherous but Pyrope made them look as light as a feather. She carried them with only her left arm.

Her searing red sun glasses made it hard to tell her expression, but she was smiling widely, teeth showing. According to most report she was blind, which would have matched up with the candy cane walking stick Pyrope held in her right hand, but not the way she swung it around, barely resting for a moment. 

She’s different than what Vriska expected. Maybe Vriska should’ve known better than to expect anything at all. 

Vriska touched the eyepatch over her right eye. She could see with her eye just fine but the distortion in her iris would make her suspicious to any proper Pyrope. The mutation in her eye that Mindfang used as a calling card wasn’t unique but it was rare enough that either Terezi or Latula might start asking questions about the Serket family’s background. Besides, being partially blind, if played right, could serve as a jumping off point for conversation between them.

The daughter of the famous Redglare would be trouble. Vriska’s assignment was to keep an eye on her. Or, as Momfang the Manipulative put it, 'politely befriended, exploited for her information, then killed.’ She could have the eloquence of a spider when discussing delicate matters of 'business' with a rival over dinner, but with her daughter, she had the tact of two fully booked trains colliding. Bosses of criminal empires, needless to say, are not very good parents. Vriska wasn’t bitter. 

It just so happened that Vriska Serket's first year of college coincided ever so perfectly with Terezi Pyrope's. Alternia Academy had the best law program in the country and who else needed to know the law better than a criminal?

Today was the first day of school. She’d been on the campus a few months ago in order to memorize it but she hadn’t ran into Pyrope. It was eleven in the morning. Vriska had already unpacked and when she was in the room, she’d spotted Pyrope’s bags there. The books Pyrope were carrying had the library sticker on them and Vriska had to admit she was impressed by the girl’s punctuality. 

"Hey," Vriska said, hurrying to catch up with Pyrope. She rotated towards Vriska, battered red boots squeaking on the pavement. The sound made Vriska stop, dead in her tracks. It was almost eerie where they’d stopped— Vriska was on one half of the quad and Pyrope was on the other. It was slightly after noon and towering marble buildings cast shadows on the girl. She placed her cane on the ground beside her as if it was a staff. The pile of books almost seemed to vanish from the dramatic moment.

Vriska closed her mouth as if she'd said something awkward and blood would be rushing to her cheeks. Vriska's long and wild obsidian hair tumbled over her shoulders, turning a cerulean blue where she'd dyed it near the bottom. A silver chain necklace with a golden scorpio charm dangled in front of her chest and she wore a collection of bracelets down her arms, most with spidery themes. Vriska’s clear eye was painted carefully with blue eyeshadow, her favorite color made relatively evident to anyone with a brain. Her fingers were decorated with rings of all different colors and materials. Her own red shoes --brand new converse -- reflected the sunlight. She'd reapplied her blue lipstick in the bathroom a few minutes before this carefully calculated encounter and she ran her tongue over her lips to feel it.

"What?" Terezi Pyrope replied cautiously but the words rolled off her tongue before most people would notice the pause. 

"Are you Terezi Pyrope?” Vriska asked. She’d been sent a picture of her roommate with the collection of emails, along with the name, so knowing that wouldn’t seem too suspicious. 

“Depends,” Pyrope replied and smacked her cane against the cobbles. “Who’s asking?”

“Vriska Serket. Your roommate.” 

“Then yeah, I am. Just in case, I can’t get you an autograph from my mom so don’t ask.” Vriska laughed eight times, letting the hah’s ring. She joined in laughing too and then cut off, “Why are you laughing? I meant it.”

Vriska took a few steps towards Pyrope, who dropped the pile of books to the side. Vriska jumped, startled, but Pyrope just stuck her hand out. Vriska grasped it solidly, shaking it up and down, but when it came time to let go, Pyrope held tight. Vriska’s visible eye widened in confusion, waiting for her to let go or make a declaration of intent. “Um,” she said, eventually. Pyrope let go, the wicked smirk only growing at her confusion. “Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you as well, Vriska Serket.“ 

“Uh.”


	21. Rosemary: Is This Twilight

The new girl stands out, even by your school’s odd standards. 

Her name is Kanaya Maryam. She has moved to your dull home town of upstate New York from the bustling city because of some mysterious family ‘thing,’ along with her two adopted brothers, Kankri and Karkat Vantas. You wonder what that thing is for a brief moment before you really get a good look at her. When you do see her, all thoughts of mystery vanished. You are simply blown away and you can’t understand exactly why. Yes, her stunning dark brown hair twists up into points around the back of her head in a precise and measured fashion.

Yes, her sun kissed yet also pale spruce skin sparkles in the light. But you’ve seen beautiful girls before and none of them provoke this sensation in your chest. 

Your heart skips a beat as Kanaya purses her thick lips, and you wonder how long she’s practiced applying makeup to have such perfect eyeliner. She wears jeans and a loose jade t shirt that sweeps loosely over her shoulders, displaying two matching white bra straps. You, through some miracle of restraint, keep your purple eyes away from the exposed pieces of fabric. You deserve a noble piece prize or something based on the amount of effort required not to gawk at her perfect face, legs, arms, and all other parts of the body. 

You rested your lavender boots on the desk but when the teacher came in with Kanaya and her brother Karkat in delicately tow, you quickly slid them into a more appropriate position. Now they have finished introducing themselves to the class, you can begin the day’s work. You look around for Dave, who usually sits next to you. He is conspicuously absent, choosing to sit next to John with a missing spot, free for the taking. The only two open seats and next to you and to them, which was probably intended by your class’s occasionally wicked whims. Karkat glances back between the seats and takes the one next to Dave and John. Terezi Pyrope, the senior who got held back for some reason despite being one of the smartest girls you know, sits behind them and unabashedly leers at Karkat. 

That leaves the only seat left for Kanaya as the one next to you, in the back row. When she slide her silver backpack onto the ground in between your desks, Dave turns his head and gives you a wink. You glare at him, with friendly disdain. Banter is the lifeblood of your ironic sibling bond. If confronted, you’d likely wager banter is the lifeblood of the whole damn universe. And you’d win. 

Your teacher brings out his well worn copy of Dracula and you focus on counting the yellow sticky notes poking out of it instead of Kanaya’s presence or the embarrassment at not actually having done your assignment. You were supposed to read chapters five and six over the weekend but kept putting it off to work on the fifty thousand projects you have planned. So many projects. Maybe one day you might finish one. For now, you’re pretty good at bluffing when you haven’t done your work. Usually, anyway. Not when there’s a beautiful girl with impeccable 

Kanaya brings out her copy. Even though it’s one of the cheap pieces of shit the school gives out, you can tell she’s no slacker. A glance at the first few pages reveals layers of annotations in absurdly neat handwriting. Your own notes are mostly bad doodles of monsters and hot vampire ladies. Kanaya’s looking at you too and she glances down too quickly. 

The teacher starts dividing you into discussion groups before shrugging and offering you the luxury of picking your own partners today. He acts like it’s some great big deal but it just serves to make the people who know they aren’t first picks awkward. At least you usually have Dave or John but they’re taken in by the other new kid in your class, Karkat. He’s loud and makes his opinions known without nuance, which makes you roll your eyes. If you can’t work in at least five levels of symbolism augmented by absurd misinterpretations of Freudian psychology into every sentence, what’s even the point of saying anything at all? You look around and find that you and Kanaya are really stuck working together. 

You wouldn’t call it stuck if you like it, really?  
“So,” she says and you find yourself focusing on her lips. Her jade lipstick is applied impeccably. She speaks carefully, as if she’s trying to keep from exposing her teeth. You wonder if she’s trying to hide something, but pass the thought up as absurd. “Dracula.” You tear yourself away from her perfect lips to examine the text. 

“Yeah?” Your words are distracted because you can’t stop thinking about the way her hair curls upwards. 

“Wait I Am… Probably Getting Ahead Of Myself.” You raise an eyebrow. “Whats Your Name? Mine Is Kanaya Although You Probably Figured That Out By Now And I Am Feeling Just A Little Bit Silly.” You laugh awkwardly at her stumblings and she looks down. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I’m Rose.” You want to lean over and touch her wrist, soothing her nerves, but you don’t. You just look at her and you want to keep looking forever. She’s magnetic and you can’t explain why. “Lalonde. Welcome to our dull little town, I’m sure its far less exciting than the city." 

"Oh I Wouldnt Say That." She looks up and your heart skips a beat. You don't understand what it is she's doing to you with her eloquent words and graceful movements but you don't fight it. You think you start blushing, which is completely out of character for you. Your desperate attempts to keep your emotions under control just end up making it worse. 

"Oh?" you say, using her word. "What would you say?" 

"I Would Say We Should Discuss Vampires. I Mean In The Book." 

"Yes, that would be in keeping with the assignment," you say and she holds it up. You lean over towards her desk and she readjusts it so you can both see the page. "Do you like it?" 

"The Book?" She shakes her head, "I Mean Of Course You Meant The Book." 

"I mean, I mean," you tease. She nods. 

"I Do In Fact Mean That. You Are Not Mean I Think." You smile as she does. "Anyway I Like This Book Although I Must Be Perfectly Frank: I Have Read It Before." You raise an eyebrow and she shakes her head. "Not In That Way It Was Only Once Or Twice."

"Or twice? What way was I accusing you of?" 

"I Am Making This Sound Worse Than It Actually Is. I Cant Remember Because It Was A Long Time Ago." You're intrigued. What could possibly be embarrassing about Dracula? It's practically the tamest vampire book you've ever read and you've read quite a few. You look at her fingers and they're trembling. For some bizarre reason, you reach out your own hand and tap it. She looks down. 

"It's just Dracula. Now, if you told me you'd read Twilight fifty times over, I'd be impressed." 

"No Definitely Not. As Low My Standards For Stories About Magical Beasts Of The Night Can Be I Still Have Common Sense." 

"How dare you?" you say, mock offense. "Twilight is my favorite book ever." She looks worried for a second but you laugh and she does to. You're drawn back to her eyes. They're beautifully alluring and focused on yours. You don't know what to say or what you feel. You didn't think you could feel this way. What was this way? This way could be awestruck. It could be desire. But you think it might be respect. She balances your remarks with ease and her awkwardness makes you feel at home. She smiles and something odd about the grin sets off alarms in the back of your mind. 

You can't stop looking at her. She's caught you with her jade green glance and her pointy teeth. You don't want to be released from whatever it is you're caught in. You don't know Kanaya but you know you're intrigued. Who is she? You want to know. You demand to know, even. 

You bite your lip, a bad nervous habit, and suddenly the moment is gone. Time speeds up again and you're no longer looking into her eyes the same way. It's friendly but not friendly enough. You don't know what you wanted from that moment but it wasn't this. 

"H3Y, L4LOND3," calls Terezi from her seat two rows in front of you and three columns to the left. You swerve away from Kanaya's death, focusing on the greater conversation that started while you were staring into your eyes. "M4RY4M. YOU TWO GO1NG TO JO1N TH3 R3ST OF US OR WH4T?" Whatever it was that happened, you snap out of it. 

You can't get distracted, not even by a pretty new girl. You've got to keep ahold of yourself. If you drop your guard, even for a single second, the consequences could be disastrous. Despite this, you slip her a piece of paper with your number on it. She gives you one with hers in return and your heart refuses to stop beating out of control.


	22. Lonely Callie

You are one sweep old, at least by the standard of trolls. 

Your caretaker is upset. He must've bitten the caretaker.

You wish to comfort your caretaker but you do not know how. You do not understand your 'brother' and his foreign presence in your shared body. You just know that there is a brother and he is here when you are not. 

He is probably what your caretaker describes as a, "MoThErFuCkEr." It doesn’t sound like a good thing and he is the only reference you have for ‘not a good thing.’ Words are complicated and so you just try to cheer him up the best you can. He goes on about messiahs and clowns, words that mean nothing to you. 

You just move closer and do the best you can to laugh and smile. Even if you do not feel like laughing or smiling. You have to.   
-  
You are two troll sweeps old. Cherubs mature quickly as a side affect of competing with their sibling. You know that because that is what your caretaker says. Your caretaker presumably knew this from the big book he reads. 

You cry when you have to go to sleep because that means that he will wake up. He has a name to you now-- Caliborn. You do not say the name out loud because then you sleep. The same applies if you read it. You don’t know how you learned it without falling asleep— your caretaker says the strange term, ‘juju’ again and again, until you start to associate it with what you don’t understand. 

You are Calliope. You have emerald green skin with lime blood that rushes to your chests when you blush. You bleed lime when you accidentally scratch your arm on your caretaker's pale orange and yellow horns. Your brother bleeds red, somehow. When you woke up, the scab changed color. 

The way your caretaker speaks of him makes you scared of yourself. You learn to speak quickly-- you are intrigued by words and you intend to learn all you can about your own species. He starts to tell you about your own kind in long rambling phrases, about But you are disappointed by cherubs. The penchant for violence and sweet theft upsets you. So your caretaker tells you about his own species instead. You learn quickly. 

Your desire to be without the curse of a brother is only matched by your desire to be a troll. You find your caretaker's large book intimidating, but you know it is the way to learn about trolls. Some bits are difficult to read. It alters between purple and green text. 

You find a small piece of paper torn out. You wonder what it is for. There are lines that don't mean anything literal and contribute to something beautiful. You didn't know what the word beauty meant until you found a section in lavender text describing it. Beauty: like something called a kanaya and appealing to the eyes. It looks like a brilliant green sun, akin to the crimson red of your own star. If a kanaya is appealing to the lavender text and makes the lavender text want to create, then the kanaya must be like this... drawing?

You feel your eyes growing heavy. You have been awake for too long, obsessed with the small fragment of paper. You hide it from your brother before you let your eyes close. You wish you could share your discovery with him, perhaps in a note, but you do not trust him. He would likely tear it up to spite you.   
\--  
On three sweeps exactly, you get up the nerve to venture out of your tower in your sleep. You have stared into the clouds and watched the visions of mystery pass by: Things that will be and have already been. The fact you understand what the clouds mean is not surprising. It just seems inherent. 

Your brother has no marks here. Only pale lime letters cloud the walls, telling you the code to your jUjU. You understand what it means, somehow, as you step out the door and walk down the tower's steps. Each gentle sound of your feet against the steps make you feel free. No guardian

Finally you make it to the bottom and step out into the fresh air. It is unlike anything you have ever seen. The golden and lime colors of the city are so bright they make cry. A pale green tear slips down your cheek because you are so happy. A creature with polished white carapace kneels to you, a gesture which, although you don’t quite understand the implications of, makes you feel respected. A word you knew only hypothetically. 

You have observed the outside world but have never been out of your tower before now. You feel truly free. The chess folk take you in hand and tell you of your glorious destiny. They call you muse of space and tell you that you are going to do wonderful, beautiful, things.   
\--  
It is a half sweep later when you wake up alone. Your caretaker is gone. You do not know when he left but you do know that you are now alone except for your cursed brother. 

Your leg is chained to the ground. Two shackles. You know you can unlock one, somehow. You open it. The other one is his-- marked by a symbol you have learned to despise.

The room is a mess. You try to tidy up the neutral area you both have access to, but you know it is pointless. He will throw your neat piles in disarray. 

Your caretaker has left you for good, but not without blessing you with as much candy and luxuries you could want. Except freedom, which would've been impossible with a brother sharing your body anyway. He would... you aren't quite sure what he would do if he was free.

You taste the candy and eat some stardust. It's sweet and empty tasting. You feel hollow. The computer terminal waits for you to input commands and he left you his book as well. You are again, alone.  
\--  
Again it is the future. You are five sweeps old and you feel so alone. The chess folk in your sleep guide you best you can, but none of them really understand your life when you are awake. 

You reach for a wrapped kiss and savor the white chocolate sugar taste. He, of course, prefers dark chocolate. You tried dark chocolate once in order to see what he liked about it. It was bitter and made you want to spit it out. 

Another one of his notes is left next to the shackles. You don't bother reading it, because you know how it'll call you an 'ugly bitch.' You try not to let his words get to you. It's difficult sometimes. It's impossible most of the time. You wish you could be anything but a cherub. The cursed skull and ugly, ugly skin mark you as an outcast. You will live as this monster until you die. Or until he predominates, which... You don't want to admit to yourself how likely that is.

Your brother is insistent on destroying everything good. 

You try to keep your mind off it by studying the large tome. No, not that one. The other one. The story you've read again and again. As you've grown, you've learned to understand what happened much better. The tale was recorded by brave the Rose human and (allegedly) beautiful troll Kanaya Maryam, as far as you can tell. Their research is rather methodological, sometimes quoting the far less eloquent "Karkat." There's also notes from several other characters, like Serket and T3R3Z1. Some ancient journal entries detailing troll history are pasted onto blank pages. 

But the best parts would be when the Rose snuck in notes about Kanaya. It was obvious the two cared for each other greatly. You have a drawing tablet in your territory and you open up to your favorite doodle of what you imagine the way they look. Humans

You like it. You wonder if it makes you as stupid as your brother tells you. You hold the stylus in your shaking hand. You dislike its green tint and pull on a glove. Better. You open a new document and sketch yourself-- your ideal self, anyway. 

You close the document before starting the lineart. Why


	23. Soft Callroxy Part 2

“Calliope,” Roxy says and even though the name doesn’t wake you up from your sleep any longer, you feel a jolt of energy run through you. Roxy’s words are soft and wrap themselves around you like a warm embrace. When her sepia brown skin rubs your emerald skeletal limbs, you feel your lime blood rush through your heart. She traces her pointer finger across your swirled cheeks and you feel happy. It’s so strange. You always knew you couldn’t feel this way and that’s why you liked to dream you could. But when she kisses your hand, your heart doesn’t care about what a cherub can and can’t feel. Roxy may be the rogue of void, but she stole your heart anyway. 

You reach your hand to her hair, letting yourself feel its softness. Roxy leans forward and kisses your lipless mouth. She giggles as your forked tongue tickles her cheeks.


	24. Aranea

1.  
Once upon a time there was a princess who got everything she wanted. She was royal and the heiress to the throne, loved by all. She was destined to rule far greater than any before her, regally accepting the duty to care for those beneath her with the skills her advanced life span would’ve granted her.

Would’ve, that is, if Meenah Peixes accepted her destiny. In her eyes, the duty of care was glorified slavery. The night before she would be officially crowned as the Heiress Ascendant, she fled without warning. 

No, you think, revising the statement as you read the message she’d sent to you and only you. The rebel princess did give you a warning. You should’ve listened to her when she spoke about how much she hated this place. You felt her sincerity with your fine tuned cerulean mind, but she must’ve been blocking you from the full intensity of her rage.

Her fuchsia letters taunt you. You found the note in your hive next to your cocoon. She didn’t bother waking you up. You try to hold back the pale blue tears threatening to break your composure.

Her words are short, precise, and to the point. The point being that she has abdicated and ran away to the moon, fleeing from her duties because she is a coward. She didn’t say that last bit. You hit your fist against the table you rest your computer on and it hurts. You take a deep breath, flickering your golden eyes open and closed again. The faintest traces of blue began to fill in your iris when you look in the mirror. You’re growing up. Soon you’ll be an adult, ready to contribute to society. Why couldn’t Meenah see that they needed to grow up? 

You open up your computer. Trollian alerts you to twelve different notifications. Meenah’s account is one of the ones pestering you, but you don’t open it. Instead, you scroll down to the bottom to see if Damara Megido has anything to say. 

She speaks in her accent as always, but a program installed in your computer tells you what she says. It is short and to the point. Damara doesn’t know Meenah like you do. She


	25. the first few pages of homestuck but its all prose i wrote

A young man stood in his bedroom. John Egbert, to be precise, and today was his thirteenth birthday. 

John let his eyes wander, tracing his posters, cake, and books. The posters were mostly of movies, which Dave tended to call bad but what did he know? John wasn’t even sure how many layers of irony removed Dave counted his distaste for them as, whatever irony actually meant in his head. The cake, although initially tasty, started to grate on John’s nerves. How much cake could one person even make in their entire lifetime? Dad clearly intended to find out and John doubted anyone would be stuck with as much cake he was.

He headed towards where he kept his magic chest. It wasn’t really magic but he liked to think so. The window to the yard, next to the chest, provided a faint reflection of his chalky face. His messy black hair curled upwards and his wire frame glasses highlighted his too blue eyes. John wore a white t shirt with an emerald slime design on it and baggy jeans. A plain look but John didn’t get too worked up about that.

He reached down and opened the chest, captchaloguing his fake arms by accident. John mumbled something in frustration and proceeded to make a mess of his room. The capchalogue system made no sense and sometimes John wished he could take stuff in and out of his sylladex without making an issue of it, like, all the time. 

He gave up on that for the moment to look at one of the few non movie posters. It was art from his favorite webcomic, Problem Sleuth. That reminded him to check the latest update in the new comic, Midnight Crew, but that could wait. The blank space next to that poster beckoned him and he knew how he wanted to fill it immediately. Before he could get to that, John noticed a card on the desk from his dad. Another, ‘I’m so proud of you, blah blah,’ note. They could get on John’s nerves at times but he had to admit finding one made him just a little bit happier and he put it in his box of notes for a rainy day. Metaphorically speaking, because John loved the rain and the way it washed the world clean. He loved the breath in his hair running across his skin, almost tugging him along with it; yes, John loved the rain.

The poster roll next to it was a far sweeter reward. That is, it would be, if he managed to hang it up without mauling it due to another sylladex mishap. He figured out how to combine some nails and a hammers just as an odd humiliating thought cake to him. John shook his head. Satisfied with the task complete, he slouched back in his neatly made and ran his fingers over his Con Air poster. One of these days, John might be as cool as Nic Cage in that movie. Hah. Who was John kidding? Nic Cage is the best, nobody could ever top him.

The calendar was next and he frowned, remembering that the highly anticipated SBURB beta should‘ve arrived three days ago. Rose promised she’d play it with him and if they were lucky, maybe she’d be able to wheedle Jade and Dave into playing it too. He checked his computer to see if any of them were online and found a message waiting for him. John pulled up pesterchum from his array of messy applications and files. Dave wanted to chat. He opened a window and Dave’s obnoxious face greeted him, ironic sunglasses and all. Dave’s messy blond hair wasn’t really messy at all. Once, in a moment of weakness and blackmail, Dave admired he styled it with mountains of hair gel every day.

“hey so what sort of insane loot did you rake in today,” Dave said, typical ‘cool’ voice on full display. 

EB: i got a little monsters poster, it's so awesome. i'm going to watch it again today, the applejuice scene was so funny.   
TG: oh hell that is such a coincidence i just found an unopened container of apple juice in my closet it is like fucking christmas up in here   
EB: ok thats fine, but i just have one question and then a word of caution. have you ever seen a movie called little monsters starring howie mandel and fred savage?


	26. Joey

"hey," Xefros said, gently shaking the paper white alien. She wore a loose warm gray jacket a shirt with a green star to match her startling dark green eyes. The area outside of the green was white as well, except for some red veins, but they were closed now. Her dark eyelashes that fluttered with every blink were familiar but different at the same time. Her legs were muscular and her hair was a deep brown untamed mess. Sweat covered her body, making her clothes cling to her skin, and outlines of clear tears ran down her cheek. Her fingers were clenched around a long mechanical device. When she'd clicked a button, light came out. 

"no, Jude, i don't want to fly," she mumbled in a way that made Xefros laugh unexpectedly. He pushed his fingers into her arm, poking her. 

"uh could you wake up?" He didn't know exactly how to politely bring an alien back from sleep. Joey had said she was a human from the planet earth and that he was the alien yesternight, but Xefros didn't really know what she meant by that. "Xtremely sorry." 

"where am i?" Joey asked as she came too, blinking and rubbing her eyes with her long skinny digits. Xefros spotted ugly purple marks up and down her wrist. Bruises, maybe. They were an unusual color, but everything was a unusual color with this alien.

"you cant remember? is that an alien thing? do i have to tell you everything that happened even thought im not Xactly sure of everything that happened--" Joey looked up and him and raised a finger to her lips. He cut off his monologue, unsure of what the gesture meant.

"no, it's fine. just... I need a minute." She breathed in deeply and Xefros stared at her pale reddish pink lips. Some of the higher castes used makeup to accent their lips with their blood color, but she was either using alien magick to keep it on or that shade was natural. Her tears were clear and didn't reveal the deep rust running through her veins. Her skirt was pale gray but was stained by the dirt. 

"so..." he eventually said, but didn't know what to follow it up with. The night before had been a daring escape from the jaws of the certain doom on the back of his (maybe) ex moirall. Now what? He checked his sylladex to see if he'd brought anything to eat. Nothing. Besides, who knew what aliens ate? They say there in silence for a while longer. 

"so what now?" Joey asked, suddenly. 

"keep looking i guess. im sorry i dont have anything for us to eat. sorta left my hive in a hurry. i don't Xd to think ahead." 

"it's okay. anything you'd got i probably shouldn't eat. cause im an alien." She said the last word with a strange accent and waved her hands around. He raised his eyebrows in confusion at her gesture and she smiled. Seeing her smile felt good. A


	27. More Rosemary Makeouts

They were wandering the hallways together. Rose's hand rested by her side, and Kanaya's was ever so slightly drifting against hers. It was probably only thanks to Rose's God Tier abilities she wasn't sweating buckets right now. She couldn't believe she was actually doing this... date? She was going on a potential date with a really cute alien vampire-- rainbow drinker. 

If she wanted to know how Kanaya really felt, she could've used seer powers to help determine the best outcome of this night easier. But... that felt like cheating, somehow.

The lights were dim, but Kanaya glowed a faint luminescence. Her jade blood was rushing to her cheeks as Rose touched her fingers. Kanaya wondered if Rose really felt the same way or if this was all in her head. That maybe they were just two friends on a walk. Not tiptoeing around flushed territory like Kanaya felt. 

The beautiful orange of Rose's dress reflected Kanaya's rainbow drinker light. Kanaya was nervous. She'd hardly been the target of much flushed attraction like her dancestor, Porrim, had. Instead, she'd mostly been the default for ashen attractions, but that had hardly worked out well. The disaster that was Vriska, Tavros, and Kanaya flashed in her head. 

Rose turned to look at Kanaya, unsure of what to feel. Kanaya's face was soft, with long horns protruding out of her head. The hook on one of them was entrancing. 

"You look nice," Rose said. Her voice was steadier than she thought it would've been. Although she was attempting to avoid looking into the possibilities of this moment, she knew there was a high probability of this going well. Well. What did that mean? Rose wasn't sure and that was probably why it was hard to see how to get to an outcome she wanted.

"Oh This Is Nothing You Look Lovely In Your Fancy Dress," Kanaya stuttered. Rose took the initiative they'd both been shying away from and grasped her hand. It was sweaty. The usually eloquent Kanaya being nervous was rare to see. Although Rose did love -- she meant liked-- the way Kanaya constructed elegant prose with her words, it was cute to see her this way. "Uh." 

"You okay?" Rose asked. The touch of her hand on Kanaya's was so soft and strong at the same time. 

"Yeah I Just Have To Admit I Have Never Done This Before." If her hand wasn't already holding onto Rose's, she would've face palmed. Dave had said to be confident! This was not confident at all. It was humiliating. 

"You mean, gone on a date?" Rose wanted to hit herself. She shouldn't have said that. What if Kanaya hadn't felt the same way? What if she'd made the assumption that this was a date, in the romantic sense? The green in Kanaya's cheeks matched the pink in Rose's. 

"This Is A Date Then," Kanaya confirmed, their eyes matching for a moment and then skidding away. "Good." Rose leaned closer in and Kanaya's skin lit up in response. Rose let out a sound that was half yes and half please as she pulled and was pulled in. 

"You're gorgeous, Kanaya Maryam," Rose said and she meant it. Her nerves seemed to vanish as Kanaya's breath fluttered onto her face. Rose took Kanaya's other hand as they stood in the dark hallway. Rose's golden dress shimmered with Kanaya's reflection. 

"So Are You Rose Lalonde." Kanaya's voice strengthened as they touched both hands. Their touch was light and space, and it was beautiful. 

"I think I want to kiss you now," Rose said, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. The space between them shrunk.

"May I?" Kanaya asked, her hands moving from Rose's to her shoulders, tugging her closer. Rose wrapped her arms around Kanaya's chest and their lips were so close that she could feel the warmth the bioluminescence crackling through the rainbow drinker's skin on her cheeks. 

It was hot, in both the literal sense and more. Rose was done with excuses for why they were just friends. This chemistry was undeniable.

"Yes," Rose whispered, her voice so quiet and rich she hardly recognized it. Kanaya kissed her, jade lipstick on human red lips. Kanaya closed her eyes, but she could still see Rose's smile with her tongue. She smelled faintly of lavender, and Kanaya melted into her so naturally she wondered why it had taken them so long. 

Rose's right hand moved to Kanaya's neck, and Kanaya made a sound of approval. Rose took a deep breath between kisses. 

“Bite me,” Rose told her in a question as they breathed close to each other. Kanaya opened her eyes and looked into hers.

“You sure?” Kanaya’s tongue flicked over her fangs, jade saliva slipping out of her mouth and Rose kissed her again. This time, Kanaya’s fangs sliced into Rose’s lips, but the pain just made her breath heavier. Crimson blood was lapped up by Kanaya’s tongue. Rose leaned so much into Kanaya they jointly stumbled against the wall. 

“Yes,” she moaned and it was a response to the question and a demand.


	28. A Short Story Involving Two Moiralls, Two Matesprites, One Facilitating Couple, and the Meddling Interference Of Dancestors Cut Short By My Lack Of Commitment

Vriska was running everyone on the meter to distraction. Terezi was right behind. The two seemed to revel in some mostly harmless anarchy now they'd worked out the minor issues in their friendship. Minor issues such as murder, blinding, and the fact Vriska was now immortal. Thanks to a girl Vriska had previously murdered. That was what passed for minor issues between what was obviously the foundation for moirallegence.

Kanaya and Rose were slowly getting to know each other out of death defying danger. It was nice. Rose slowly got back into the habit of writing wizard stories, after the realization her mother would be alive in the new session, and Kanaya read all of her work dutifully. 

Karkat and Dave, surprisingly, had gotten into a complicated mess of quadrant facilitation. It had started with friendship, but Karkat was developing more pale leanings. Meanwhile, Dave had been coming to terms with a red crush on the shouty troll. 

Terezi stood next to Vriska in a hall of meteor. The scent of betrayal and pain had vanished from Vriska's blood. Anger had evaporated after a few long winded monologues about justice, revenge, and friendship from both of them. In the end, it didn't really matter. In the end, Terezi had never wanted Vriska dead. She wanted the old Vriska back: the one who didn't believe her own lies and exaggerations. The Vriska who didn't prance around with pixie wings and arrogant schemes. At least, not alone.

"H3Y VR1SK4," Terezi said. Vriska turned to look at the blind troll. "WHY H4V3N'T YOU B33N W34R1NG YOUR GOD HOOD?" It was an honest question. Terezi had thought it looked cool, at first. She wondered how Vriska'd vanished from Prospit a while after Terezi had woke her up. Then she'd dug up the full story from Tavros while asleep-- he was much more pliable there. 

"Bad mem8ri8s. Y8u kn8w."


	29. Vriskatale Neutral Ending

"I just wwant to see my frriends again," said Eridan as Vriska stood over him. "I just wwant to see Fef again. Go ahead. Take my soul and cross the barrier."

Vriska stood there, numb. The king had put up a good fight. Not good enough... but a good one. Kanaya had told her no one had ever gotten past the king as Vriska fled. She'd screamed it at Vriska, Kanaya's voice raspy from the repetition. Yet, here she was. The violet dust fell from Vriska's knife from where she'd made contact with his flesh. She wasn't sure what to do.

Two options floated in front of her. Fight. Or mercy. She could kill him and win, just like that. His moirall, Queen Feferi, was dead by her hands. Several of his subjects were too, like Aradiaton. She wasn't sure why she even hesitated. It wasn't guilt, was it? 

Terezi's words were cutting into her. Judging her. _WOW. YOU R34LLY SUCK 4T B3ING 3VIL. DID YOU 3V3N TRY?_ So many corpses had brought her here. Why not add another death to the list? She might as well. Her robotic arm clenched up. She straightened her back and moved forward with the knife. Just kill the flop already. She knew she should. Had to. It was... necessary? No, that made no sense.

This was too easy. There had to be some sort of trick. Everyone had warned her of the king. Well, except for Karkat, who had called him King Floppyface and a big pushover. In an endearing way. Vriska was pretty sure he meant it in an endearing way.

Eridan was bleeding regal dust all over the ground. Vriska went back and forth in her mind. This wasn't a big choice or anything. She just needed to stab him. Then it would be over. Vriska internally lectured herself to stop being such a wuss. She wasn't going to back out now, obviously. 

There was no other option. So she finally forced her robotic parts into motion, moving forward, slashing and attacking. Dust trailing where she went. Eridan accepted his fate. That look of surrender almost made Vriska back out and refuse to deliver a killing blow. Almost. She wasn't one to give up after she made a decision and this was the choice she'd made. She could not pretend to be someone she was not. That would be immoral.

But before she could hit him, a familiar sight filled her with... astonishment. Or was it confusion? She couldn't see what was happening over the spray of violet dust coming from a body she had not yet slain. She scrubbed her glasses with her hands, but that only made it worse. Her vision was blurred and she couldn't see why Eridan had spontaneously died. Finally the dust settled and she managed to clear her vision. Then, after doing so, she wished she had not. She was relatively sure she wanted to go back to before she'd started trying to kill Eridan because she really didn't want to have to deal with this dude. Again. 

"Heh. Heh. Heh," said a voice Vriska recognized. It was Doc Scratch the Cueball. He had been following Vriska from the Ruins. She'd first noticed after Kanaya had attacked for the first time. She'd turned back and seen the familiar flash of white against the dark blue. Vriska hadn't realized that it had been Doc Scratch at the time, but a few more almost encounters had warned her about the approaching thing.

Why did he kill the king? Was it all for his mysterious plan? She'd barely heard anything that hadn't related to his stupid charmingness. The idiot was not charming. Even if he was powerful and potentially omniscient. She still wasn't sure about that last bit. Wait, maybe this was about the mysterious master he was tying to summon into the universe or something. 

"C8m8 on," Vriska muttered under her breath. "I 8eat the final 8oss, fair and squar8. Just giv8 m8 my r8ward." 

"It's me, Doc Scratch." Doc Scratch Vriska knew if the bastard wasn't faceless, he'd be winking. "Thank you. After all, without your help, it would have been impossible for me to get to this point." The worst thing about his tone was that she knew he was being sincere, or, at the very least, believed he was being sincere. Vriska wasn't even sure if there was a difference between the two. 

She looked down at her robotic arm and realized she'd dropped her knife in the chaos. She picked it up and stepped aggressively towards the cue ball shaped flower. Doc Scratch laughed again. Vines wrapped around the six human signs. Time, Void, Space, Hope, Life, Heart. 

"Ah, the Thief of Light. Arrogant as ever. I thought -- and by that I mean know-- I had told you: I am an excellent host." That felt out of place, but she was too disturbed by the circumstances to pinpoint why. 

He smashed the clear jars containing the signs of the humans who had fallen before Vriska. They floated up, around him. As if he was a planet and they were moons. Orbiting before crashing into him. Quickly and without a second thought, Vriska lunged at them, but NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTH

her mind went blank and she couldn't see or think for a moment. Absolute absence. Not even the beginning of somewhere to focus on. Not even the concept of a beginning was present. Nor the concept of an end. Everything was timeless. 

It was like sleeping, except there were no dreams. She was nothing. No thoughts, no imagination. No body. Nobody. There was a vague idea of lines of ones and zeroes around, but those were only ghosts of a forgotten memory. 

She was nothing. She was... not. There was no blood rushing through her veins, pounding under her skin. There was no sensation of knife in hand. She felt and she was nothing. If Vriska was, then she would be fear. But she could not be fear.

Understuck.exe has crashed. Restarting...

It wasn't black. The nothingness. It was white and blue. The nothingness was nothing but numbers.

Understuck.exe is launching...

Vriska: Exist.

And then she was again. Her mind rushed back into motion, the memory of nonexistence gone. All she knew was that one moment she'd attacked the cue ball headed flower and the next, she was /in this black void. She reached her hands, robotic and human, forward. She could barely see those hands, even with the shine of the repurposed gardening knife in hand. 

Describing this place as black wasn't right. It was darker than black and it was dark enough that she couldn't acknowledge the existence of color at all. It was thick darkness and it was thin darkness. It pulled her down like a wave of honey, but it simultaneously had no weight at all. Vriska stepped forward. The ground was stable, even if she couldn't see it. A vague sense of vertigo passed over her. The Thief of Light's domain was not the void. Despite the strange sensation in her gut, she stepped forward, again and again. 

There was no sound to be heard from the impact of her feet against what should've been the floor. Vriska tightened her grip on the weapon as she began to move forward. She was going to stab that cueball until it was just dust. Slowly, the world began to shift into more of something. 

Her movements became more solid. More defined. A clicking sound echoed from her feet against the floor. Nerves turned to strength: the way they always did for Vriska. This was no different than any other situation she'd been in. Hell, maybe Doc Scratch having the power of the previously fallen humans might make it an even fight. Her face remained flat and expressionless, but she knew that inside, she was smiling. This place would not scare or make her run. Each foot down became confident. Each foot up became arrogant.

She continued this way until she saw the beginning of another shadow. The abyss had no light for any shadows to be cast from. The dim light that seemed to be generated from no where was only enough for Vriska to see her own feet... but there was a mammoth shadow anything. It was like the previous darkness, like a black hole sucking in light. Sucking in Vriska's own light. 

There was a faint glowing star up ahead, and she reached to touch it. She waiting for the surge of strength and determination that always followed, but nothing came. Instead, the star cracked down the middle, covered in red light until it shattered. 

"Hello," said Doc Scratch. His face appeared in the darkness. It illuminated the area around that, and Vriska examined it. The view of his face was pixelly and interrupted, almost as if displayed on some kind of screen... some kind of television. "I knew that you wouldn't just give up. After all, I am an excellent judge of character." Vriska said some words along the line of "G8 fuck y8urself," in several different languages. Eight, to be precise. Vriska was nothing if not consistent. 

"Such vulgarity. As you can tell, I have absorbed the six human signs. But it appears I am missing one." 

"Cut t8 the chas8 alr8ady," Vriska glared with her single eye at the sassy cueball. She was tired of all these games. Putting up with the trolls from across the entire Underground was exhausting. There had been so many unending shenanigans for her to keep up with, no wonder she'd killed a few out of frustration more than any sort of justification. She didn't have any more patience for Scratch's unending verbose monologues. 

"If that is what you prefer. Sucker." 

A red light shone, illuminating a dark figure. Vriska knew that if she could see herself, she would merely be a silhouette and that her golden sun of a sign would float in front of her. She straightened her back and moved into an offensive stance. The lighting in this other worldly void was strange and made it hard to see.

Light flashed and a monstrosity of a demon came from the shadow. Vriska could tell it was soaring above her. It was 50 feet tall and bulging with dark green and red vines. A silver cueball design spiraled throughout the plantlike parts. Pool balls of all different kinds were showcased, weaving in and out of the vines. Only the eight ball was missing. Mechanical monstrosities tore between the plants and pool balls, connected in off putting patterns. A horrifyingly neon blue and orange smiling puppet's face seemed to pop in and out of the design. The strange face scrawled in purple blood dripped down the screen of a TV. 

The plant's set of ropelike vines was thick and wrapping over itself, dark purple sap dripping from its burgeoning knots. Human eyes were shoved into a mouth -- four of them. One eye was pale pink, another orange mixed with red. The green eye was merely too different shades of green, and so was the blue one. Even if one shade was more neon. Giant teeth like huge shards of pottery shot out of the mouth, indigo stains like blood. Was that a pair of twisted glasses at the core? 

Candy red blood dyed mangy leaves crimson and dropped onto the void bellow. There were lime swirls across its body, and the spirals looked like they were cut into the flesh as scars. The cue balls that should've been white as snow were covered in the blood.

It was a nightmare made real. The mere look at its horrible fusion of pieces would've made a regular human run for cover. Legs of green skull flesh tore out of the bulging beast and towered over her. Sharpened claws reached out, cutting into its self. The bulging veins were obviously not human colored-- or even normal troll toned.  
The fleshy tones made Vriska feel sick to her stomach, even though she'd seen plenty of gross things in her life. It was horrifying in the 'this should not exit' sense, even to her.

He laughed again. Doc Scratch did, that was. Omega Doc Scratch. 

Once the laughter that was more of a demented cackle died down, the attacks came. Quick. Hard. Damaging. A series of exploding pool balls shot down, moving straight at her. It's mouth opened, shooting out rainbow colored lasers that tricked her moving. She twisted away from the pool balls, one's explosion following its landing knocking her to the side. That slowed her for a moment and a laser caught her in her robotic arm. It didn't hurt as much as it would've if that had been a real arm, but it still hurt.

Vriska gritted her teach and kept moving. She was not going to make this easy for Doc Scratch. He was probably just toying with Vriska, but she had a few tricks up her sleeve. Maybe he was near all powerful, but she was Vriska. The odds were clear-- and Vriska did have all the luck, didn't she? She figured this might even be an even fight. 

She slashed at the closest knotted mess of twisted limbs and felt. Purple, indigo, and red blood following her attack. Omega Doc Scratch didn't even flinch at the injury. 1DMG. This was going to take forever and Vriska didn't have forever. She was not patient and she'd hardly worked on endurance. She was best in a quick fight. 

Every single attack got quicker and more intimidating. The blood and sap that poured out of the monstrosity's every injury was disgusting, and Vriska couldn't avoid getting it on her hands. She almost thought she saw a clown laughing in the backdrop of the void, the :o) face taunting her. Attacks came in many shapes, pool themed as well as many other types. She sliced off a muscular vine, but as she turned around she saw another one reaching towards her.

Vriska barely managed to get out of its way, letting it slam into the other part of Doc Scratch's demonic form. She thought she could see a puppet whirling around, fast, but she wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Vines snuck up on her feet, but Vriska was prepared, jumping over them and crouching to the ground to avoid a shot of rainbow laser. 

Doc Scratch's attacks were getting more frequent, and she knew she had to keep moving. They tracked her everywhere she clambered across the void. That meant her early analysis of just keep moving was a good one. She couldn't 

She fell forward, missing the beat of the battle. Her hands scrapped against the ground. She gasped in a quick breath, surprised at the shock. Vriska's knife flew out of her hand. Her robotic limb moved out to grab it, but it was out of range. 

Vriska tried to climb to her feet and move-- she had to move-- but the impact of a new series of bullets across her legs hurt like hell. She bit down on her lip in an attempt to keep from screaming. Blood dripped down her legs from the impact.

She rolled over, fighting the pain in order to get out of the way. Her lip was being chewed numb and she let out a small gasp. But only a small one.

Focus. Vriska turned to look at the monstrosity's face. The screen was flashing and Vriska wasn't sure if she was seeing double or not. Sweat rolled down her cheek like that monster in waterfall she'd killed. The pale blue light of the void symbol floated in her vision.

Knives were shooting at Vriska, and she pulled herself upwards to dodge them. She thought she could hear screams.

"Someone," Vriska whispered. "Help." Her voice was low, but a pale symbol of time floated above her face. The light illuminated the void around her-- there was still nothing here except that hellbeast of a pool ball.

The knives that were shooting at her turned into green bandaids. The sudden jade color that filled the emptiness made Vriska take a quick and jagged breath. One hit her and she felt a wave of healing up and down her leg. Blood vanished and she hauled herself to her feet again.

Before she could even blink, the helpful light was gone and Scratch was back. 

"Ha. Ha. Ha," he said, arrogant as always. She tightened her fists and attacked, slicing with the knife in her robotic hand. One damage. And then one more. 

Sweat rolled down her cheeks. Her face was scarlet with anger and frustration. The blood staining her had accumulated from several injuries. Each round of healing stopped the pain and the bleeding, but they were few and far between. 

Doc Scratch's mocking laughter tore into Vriska's skull. It was rocketing around, with no other sound to block it out. Except for the moans that she couldn't keep from letting out. And, of course, the word sucker was pretty much written in neon green and scarlet letters across her vision.

Where was all that green and red coming from? Omega Doc Scratch should be a pure white being except for the colors from the signs... but he was dominated by green and red anyway. 

No time for curiosity. A spiral of crimson and lime was flying at her. She had to swerve to the side, yanking a pointed pool cue out of its flesh. But another lime sucker flew up out of no where and her arm was hit.

He's laughing and Vriska's vision doubled. Or was it octupled? She barred her teeth and kept attacking. Everything moved into a gun shape angled at her face, but she moved out of the way. Only a little bit longer until she could heal again.

She screamed for help at the top of her lungs, eight punctuated cries of DAMNIT just h88888888al me again. 

Then the bullets turned to flowers and she grabbed at them with furious hands. 

The signs floated around Vriska. She wasn't sure the healing had worked because she thought her eyesight had gotten confused again. 

But no. All of them came to heal her at once and she felt tears prickling in the back of her eyes at the relief. Omega Scratch's health dropped down to... zero. 

Vriska moved sluggishly. She was exhausted from the long fight, and the healing could only do so much. She tore out the lollipop sucker and before she could feel the pain, another cool wave of healing washed down her skin.

Her clothes were torn in so many which ways. Her denim jacket had patches and her t-shirt with her sign was glued to her chest by sweat. She was reasonably sure her shoelaces had become untied at some point-- her left red converse sneaker was trying to make an escape. The long gardening knife she held in her hand was covered in gunk from Omega Doc Scratch's weird flesh. 

She stepped forward, knife at the ready. One small, tiny, dagger was nothing. But she was powerful. She'd killed a king. How hard could a demon be? 

The answer to that question was apparently: R88888888ally hard. 

Vriska didn't think the mutated pool ball had the capacity to feel anything. Even throughout all of this, his smug arrogance stayed the same. It was impossibly frustrating.

She attacked and attacked, with all of her might. Finally, she was getting somewhere. Vriska had been so frustrated with his impossible arrogance that when she finally did have the power to hit well, she hit quickly and quicker.

someone bein with fed up arrogant, a voice in the back of Vriska's mind whispered. i am tots wonderin how that could be feelin.

To that probably accurate observation about herself... she just ignored and kept fighting.   
It felt like it had been an entire year of near death experiences before she finally sunk a fatal blow.

"Oh no, it appears you have defeated me." His voice was weirdly sarcastic. Vriska stood back, looking at the monster. Then...

She felt her feet fall out from beneath her, emptiness turning from black into nothing. 

She remembered a ghost of a memory that wasn't hers. 

She tried to reach out for something but she couldn't find anything.

A whisper in her ears told her, "it goinga to be the okays."

The fact Vriska's friendly guide sounded very drunk should probably be disturbing, but she'd been through toomuch random stuff to care at this point. 

Then the void turned to black and she was back, almost an hour ago. 

"Hah. Hah. Hah."

Bullets encircled Vriska from all angles. Vriska's blood ran cold. She'd forgotten. Time manipulation. That... was... something she'd forgotten about.

"Poor sucker."

If that bastard planned on taking her power to release his employer or whatever, she would spit in his (highly metaphorical) face until the end. No way was she going down without a fight. 

No one beats Vriska Serket in a stubborn off.

She is simply the best there is. 

"Call for help now. I know you've scared people you call your friends away with your murderous games." 

She wasn't quite sure why she'd driven them away on purpose.

She could've let them live. All of them.

"I wonder why they'd wasted their foolish trollian camaraderie on you. I'll never understand it." 

She didn't get it either. Right now, though, she figured she could use some of that foolish Trollian camaraderie wasted on her.


End file.
